“I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” Walt Whitman, 'Leaves of Grass'

And I went out of my mind
gloomily & quietly –
I no longer need to change my mind,
or stay in line,
a little beloved dog
amongst the street traffic and cops
It  wouldn't last long though,
experience shows;
hastily fate flirted flared
and ill-luck came and stopped me
dead for the beautiful life is short,
hangs by a thread,
aye, yous a long time dead
strong smells squat in the memory
of that exquisite day
of first confessing
(yeah I'm guessing)
that an echo of days-gone-by
remains a mote in the eye
irritatingly circular like
the grain of sand, the oyster and the pearl;
for me, the parable of the mote and the beam
screams out judge not, that ye be not judged
something from youth prompts deep affection
& frequent tears
for plain speaking ways
I read again
of the balcony, the little street traffic, and the cops.